


Runaway Bride

by mldrgrl



Series: Adventures of The Lady Detective and The Writer [32]
Category: Californication (TV), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: Angst, Cold Feet, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 16:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11360955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: Stella is still having doubts...lots of doubts...





	Runaway Bride

Stella is walking across the small, square patch of closely clipped, bright green grass at the back side of the pool.  She doesn’t know why she’s chosen to be barefoot - it’s very unlike her - but the grass is tickling the bottom of her feet.  The lawn is shaded by a large beech tree, tall enough to block the setting sun.  Above her, the sky is bright and blue and cloudless.

 

Karen is there, dressed in black.  Black pants, black turtleneck, black boots.  She is taller and thinner and blonder than Stella remembers her to be.  Becca is also there in a white dress, smiling, baby’s breath in her hair and a bouquet of white calla lilies in her hands.  And of course, there is Fish, next to Karen, a red apron over his Hawaiian shirt.  He is waving barbeque tongs in his left hand and grinning.

 

There is Hank, dark jeans, black shirt, leather jacket.  His hair looks freshly cut, but his five o’clock shadow is prominent.  He’s standing next to an austere-looking priest.  It’s the priest that makes her pause and she is pulling her brows together in confusion when Hank reaches for her hand.  She is hesitant, but she is fitting her hand into his as he pulls her close.  She is putting her nose to his jacket and breathing in the smell of rich leather.  It’s one of her favorite smells.

 

“Are we ready?” the priest is asking.

 

“Fuck yeah, Padre,” Hank is answering.

 

Stella is starting to sweat.  She’s not hot or cold, but her hands are becoming wet and the backs of her knees and her underarms and it’s dripping down her spine to her tailbone.  Her fingers are slipping out of Hank’s as the priest is talking.  His words sound distorted, like the adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon.   _ Whanwhanwhanwhan _ .

 

Around them, the sky is growing darker and dimmer.  There is the sound of thunder somewhere and a hot wind is rattling the leaves of the beech tree.  She’s having trouble breathing.

 

Stella is backing away, inching her feet back in small, incremental steps.  Her ankles are feeling heavy, and the further she retreats, the heavier her ankles get.

 

“Dad,” Becca is calling out.  “Dad, do something!  She’s getting away!”

 

“Where you going, Sherlock?”  Hank is asking.

 

Stella is still backing away, growing smaller.  At first, she thinks she’s shrinking, but she’s actually sinking, down into the grass, disappeared to her knees when she finally notices.  And they’re all looking at her, yelling something at her or to each other.  She isn’t sure.  Their mouths are moving, but everything is silent.  They’re trying to reach for her - all of them except for the priest, who is still reading from his bible.

 

Something is blocking them from getting to her, something none of them can see, but it blocks them nonetheless.  Hank’s mouth is forming her name, over and over and over.  Stella watches him struggle against the invisible wall that keeps him from her until she’s no longer there.

 

When Stella wakes up, she’s shivering and sweating.  She gulps for air because her throat feels tight and her lungs compressed.  She’s weighed down by Hank’s arm, heavy and sold around her.  Even if he wasn’t holding her, she’s not sure she’d be able to move.

 

Slowly, Stella’s body stops trembling and she starts to breath easier.  She waits until she feels fully calm before she gently lifts Hank’s arm off of her and slips out of bed.  Quietly, she pulls on her robe and treads lightly down the stairs to the kitchen.  She doesn’t turn on a light - there’s enough moonlight shining through the front windows to find her way - and fills a glass with cold water.  She drinks greedily, sucking it down without stopping and then fills it again.

 

Hank’s footsteps are hard to miss, especially when he’s half-asleep.  He’s never managed to avoid the two creaky steps and she can always hear him coming.  She supposes though, that she appreciates the fact that he’s never tried to be stealthy with her.  Not even a little.  Hank doesn’t have secrets.  Stella has enough for both of them anyway.

 

“Everything alright?” Hank asks, his bare feet making a sticky little sound on the tiles as he comes into the kitchen.

 

“Yes,” she answers.

 

He slips his arms around her and bends his chin to her shoulders.  He’s still bare-chested, she can feel it through the thin material of her robe, but he’s put his jeans on.  The unbuttoned fly bumps into her tailbone.  There is still cool, damp sweat at the back of her neck, which he finds when he brushes her hair aside and kisses her there.  His thumbs make soothing tracks up and down her hips.

 

“Hank, I…”

 

“Mmhm?”  He slides his hands up her sides and cups her breasts, massaging them lightly.  She pushes her hips back against him and he presses her forward against the center island.  She can feel the hard bulge in his pants against her back.

 

That’s just fine.  If they’re fucking, she won’t have to talk to him.  Won’t have to tell him she isn’t sure she can get on that plane in the morning and make a vow to spend the rest of her life with him and only him.  She puts her glass of water down and lifts her robe up over her hips as she bends forward to rest her elbows on the counter.

 

Hank slides his hand into her panties and she winces a little.  Neither her brain or her body are really up for this, but if she can just clear her mind, he can make her body listen to reason.  He rubs her gently and she rolls her hips with it with encouragement, but her body remains uncooperative and Hank eases his hand out of her panties.

 

“Talk to me, Sherlock,” he says, crossing his arms over her chest and bringing her back into him.

 

She reaches back and cups the bulge in his jeans, squeezing him just right, making him groan.  He backs his hips up away from her and spins her around to face him.  She grips the counter behind her, uses the strength of her arms to push herself up onto its surface and draws him between her legs.  He tries to murmur her name, but she kisses it off his lips.

 

“Talk to me,” he growls into her mouth.  “Please, just talk to me.”

 

Her heart hammers against her chest in the fight or flight way it used to when she was a first year detective dealing with an aggressive perpetrator, back before she learned how to harness and control the anxiety.  It catches her off guard that she feels so threatened by such a simple request.  She knows it’s only hard because she’s making it hard.  She pushes him away with a hand on his chest and he straightens, but doesn't move away.  Instead, he covers her hand with his and holds it there.

 

“You've been having nightmares,” he says.  “You don't always wake up, but I can feel your tension.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is it work?  A bad case?”

 

She shakes her head.

 

“Is it...we don't have to go through with this wedding.  I've told you that.”

 

“I know you have.”

 

“Talk to me.”

 

“I don't know if I can.”

 

“You can tell me anything.”

 

“I don't know if I can go through with it.”

 

“Why?”?”

 

“Because, I don’t know if I’m capable of forever.”

 

“You’re the most capable person I know.”

 

“Hank…”

 

“I’m serious, Sherlock.  And this...this was  _ your _ idea.”

 

“I know that.”

 

Hank let’s go of her hand and steps back a little.  Her adrenaline is still up and she is tense all over.  Her mouth has gone dry and she swallows.

 

“I thought about fucking someone else,” she confesses.

 

Hank cocks his head a little and his eyes twitch slightly.  His throat bobs up and down like he’s fighting tears.  She tries to maintain his gaze, but she has to look away.

 

“I’ve never known you not to do anything you set your mind to,” he says.  “What stopped you?”

 

“The thought that you would probably forgive me.”

 

Hank’s chin juts forward as he slides his lower jaw back and forth and gnashes his teeth.  He nods briefly.  “Would’ve been pretty fucking cowardly of you,” he says.

 

“I realize that.”

 

“How close did you get?”

 

“I had someone in mind.  I spoke with him in my office under the pretext of a file review.  And then I...I dismissed him.”

 

“Sucks to be that guy, I guess.”

 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

 

“I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me either.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Hank rubs the back of his head for a moment.  “I’m gonna get on that plane tomorrow, with or without you.  Worst case scenario, I spend a nice long weekend with my daughter, and then I’ll come home.  I told you we didn’t need official stamps on our relationship.  If you can’t go through with that, fine.  It’s not gonna  stop me from being married to you in my heart.”

 

“What about...what would you tell Becca?”

 

“Oh, don’t worry about that.  They’ll just assume it’s another classic case of Hank fucking up.”

 

“That’s not what-”

 

“Your reputation will be untarnished,” he interrupts, walking away from her.  “See you in the morning.”

 

She slips off the counter when she hears him creak up the stairs.  They have four hours until they’re to be up and getting ready to go to the airport.  She doesn’t think she can sleep.  She sits down in one of the wingback chairs in the front room and stays there until dawn breaks.

 

It’s a bleak morning.  The sky doesn’t so much brighten as it just lightens from black to a dull grey.  She hears the alarm go off upstairs and hears Hank getting ready.  Eventually, he comes downstairs, hauling a suitcase with him.  He shrugs on his leather jacket and stands in the doorway, just looking at her.

 

“Wish me a good flight, at least?” he says.

 

She lifts her tired eyes to his, but can’t speak.  He comes towards her and braces his hands on the arms of the chairs, leaning down until he’s almost nose to nose with her.  She doesn’t move and he tilts his head and kisses the corner of her mouth.

 

Two hours later, she’s still in the chair, thinking that if she were on that plane right now, she might want to hold Hank’s hand.

 

The End


End file.
